


Jack's Interesting All Star Weekend

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Deluded Thinking, Infidelity, M/M, Mentions of Real Hockey Players, Semi-Public Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 12:59:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18476734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Power games between alleged hockey robots mostly just result in a big fat win for Kent Parson.





	Jack's Interesting All Star Weekend

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on meme - thank you to those who commented along as I wrote.

Jack is three captain-and-cokes (and a couple miscellaneous shots) in, the water in the hot tub is exactly the right temperature, and a jetstream is easily working out the knot in his lower back that’s been giving him shit for the last few days; it’s nice, being this relaxed. His first All Star Weekend as an actual invitee kind of had him on edge, but at least so far, it’s actually felt more like a weekend back at Samwell. Jonny Toews has been walking around mostly naked, reminding Jack of a much more serious version of Shitty, and Ovechkin came booming into the bar they’d all been at earlier and bought vodka shots for everyone in earshot, which was very Holster-like in both volume and generosity.

He thinks what he was worried about was emerging from the protective cocoon of the Falconers’ organization’s support of him after his and Bittle’s big coming out moment. He was pretty sure there was going to be a big difference between meeting random teams one at a time out on the ice and having to spend an extended weekend with a bunch of guys he didn’t at all know well and who probably had some fucked-up ideas about him. But it’s actually been pretty cool--there have definitely been a few people who have aggressively avoided him, but mostly the other guys have been chill as hell.

Jack’s surprised, actually, by how many guys have seemingly gone out of their way to show how “chill” they are about him. Hence the entirely random set of dudes currently sharing a private hotel hot tub with him.

 _Well_ , he thinks, as his eyes follow the way Kenny is sliding along the bench to find the perfect spot, _not_ entirely _random_.

“Move that fat ass, Croz,” Kenny chirps. “Daddy needs a jet.”

Sidney rolls his eyes and laughs, but does slide down the bench a little. He brushes up against Jack’s left side, and Jack braces for the inevitable awkward flinch, but it doesn’t come. “Call yourself ‘Daddy’ again and I’m gonna drown you, Parson,” Sid says.

“Smother me with your thighs instead,” Kenny retorts, quirking his eyebrows suggestively and eliciting laughs from some of the other guys. “Daddy would die a happy man.”

“Be fa--reakier, um,” says that annoying pest from Houston whose name Jack can never remember, “Parser, ya fuckin’ menace.” Jack would also think he was just pronouncing “freak” weirdly, except that Aero-Asshole was definitely dragged into the hot tub by his clearly much more progressive buddy Jordan Phillips from the Schooners and had very purposely sat as far from Jack as he could.

“Eat my entire ass, Showzy,” Kenny replies, almost sweetly -- Showalter, Jack recalls then, and doesn't succeed in not rolling his eyes -- and grins as he drops his head brazenly onto Sid's shoulder. “And Crosberry's too!”

It gets a chorus of groans and a couple snickering laughs, and later Jack will blame the alcohol for his own response, which is to smirk to himself and say, “Wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, Showzy.”

A near-lifetime of anxiety has conditioned Jack to take silences after he's spoken as the indisputable fact that he has Really Fucked Up and Everyone Is Judging Him. He feels the hot shame prickles starting in his stomach and is ready to bolt from the tub when Kenny, as he'd done so many times before, saves him with a bark of laughter. “Well, you are the resident ass expert--”

“-- _ass_ pert,” Nate MacKinnon smoothly interjects.

Kenny snickers at that and hooks his chin more securely onto Sid's shoulder (which, seriously how does he get away with that?). “Good one, Dogg. Yeah, Zimms, as our resident asspert, I declare it time for you to rank NHL asses on eatability.”

“Fuck that, I'm out,” Showalter says, as he's climbing out of the tub.

Jack deadpans, “Really? Didn't see you at the last meeting.”

Phillips busts out laughing first this time, followed by the rest of the guys, and MacKinnon flings a handful of water at Showalter as he scurries away. Jack sneaks a look at Kenny, only to find Kenny watching him, even as he's making a show of laughing along. Kenny nods slightly, encouraging, but the movement catches Sid's attention, so Kenny just grins up at him and waggles his eyebrows before he says, “You know your ass is number one on my list, babe.”

“Fuck off, Parser,” Sid says, but also doesn't move to shake Kenny off (and seriously _seriously_ how is Kenny getting away with this!), which Kenny clearly takes as an invitation to slide over even more until he's on Sid's lap. “I hate you,” Sidney adds, but he's flushed and smiling, and Jack is pretty sure Sid's on his fourth or maybe fifth gin and tonic, so maybe that's why he's letting Kenny get so up close and personal.

Jack's not, like, jealous or anything. Sidney might have the second best ass in the NHL, but Jack doesn't want to be sitting in his lap or anything. Kenny looks comfortable though. And pretty. Really pretty. But then, Kenny's always looked good sitting in someone's lap.

Actually, they look like what Jack figures he and Bittle look like together. That...that must be it.

“So?”

“What?” Jack shakes himself from his inner train of thought and hopes that the bubbles from the jets are enough cover.

Kenny grins at him, but it's MacKinnon surprisingly who prods, “Most eatable asses, let's go!”

“Ain't gonna be yours, buddy,” chirps Phillips, which gets them all laughing again.

“Hey, you don't know what he's into,” Nate replies.

“Don't leave us hanging, bud,” Sidney says quietly, a small smile on his face.

Jack's almost positive he's either dead or dreaming at this point, but… 

“Well, my number one pick might surprise you, actually.”

“It’s me, clearly, and that’s not even remotely surprising,” Kenny chirps, and he shamelessly wiggles his ass in Sid’s lap.

Jack flushes a little watching the way that Sidney tightens his grip around Kenny’s waist, presumably to stop him squirming, but also maybe to hold him down and concentrate that wiggling on his dick. (It’s what Jack would be doing were he in Sid’s place--and if Kenny were Bittle, of course.) He knows for a fact that Kenny’s got an absolutely incredible ass and remembers one glorious day back before everything went to shit between them that Kenny asked to be rimmed and Jack, despite never having rimmed anyone before, managed to make Kenny come with only his tongue. It had been absurdly hot, and Jack couldn’t even wait to get inside Kenny, had rubbed off on Kenny’s ass and it only took a few good thrusts before he was coming hard and hot.

So yeah, Kenny is his number one pick, but Jack’s not about to admit that right now. Besides, it’s entirely possible that he only thinks that because Kenny’s the only one he’s ever gotten to do that with.

“You’re not even number one in this hot tub, loser,” Phillips chirps back.

“My money’s on Davo,” suggests MacKinnon.

“Psh, fuck McJesus and his speedy-ass self.”

“You’re just jealous he beat you for Fastest Skater again.” Sidney reaches a hand up out of the water and gently tweaks Kenny’s ear, and the gesture is so weirdly intimate, it makes Jack tense up. They’re not...are they?

Jack’s almost certain that Sidney is straight. He’s known Sid for a long time, remembers very well the way Sid had reached out when Jack dropped out of the draft, remembers how Sid had come and spent time with him in that lost year where he tried to figure out who he was going to be moving forward. Sidney had, on occasion, felt like the older brother that Jack didn’t have, but without the awkward and potentially tension-inducing sense of being the son that Bad Bob wanted and hadn’t got. If they had more in common than Jack initially thought, it would have been nice to know--not that he would blame Sid for keeping his mouth shut about who he likes to fuck, considering the fact that he’s easily the most famous active hockey player in the world.

Still.

It’s not really any of his business, is the thing. He and Kenny aren’t even really friends anymore, and he and Sidney aren’t really close anymore, and also Jack has a boyfriend he very much loves, and it’s just--well, if Sid and Kenny are dating or fucking or whatever, then _mazel tov_ to them.

“I’m not jealous of Connor McDavid. Who the fuck wants to deal with the trashfire that is Edmonton?” Kenny sniffs haughtily. “And my money,” he adds, turning toward Jack again with a wicked grin that Jack remembers very fondly from any number of house parties when they were in the Q, “is on Seguin.”

MacKinnon groans and Phillips splashes water in Kenny’s direction, but Sid laughs and asks, “Why Seggy?”

“Because,” Kenny says, eyes basically glittering with mischief, as he leans back until his temple is brushing against Sidney’s cheek, “Seggy is the closest thing we have to a twink, and Zimms has a type.”

One of Sid’s arms has wrapped around Kenny’s waist, holding him in place, and he lifts the other one now to stretch along the lip of the hot tub behind Jack. Jack isn’t sure if it’s on purpose or not, but he now has a much better view of what the fuck Kenny is doing, and it’s most definitely working his hips and grinding down in Sidney’s lap. It’s subtle as hell because they’re not exactly alone in the damn tub, but it’s not _that_ fucking subtle either despite the bubbles from the jetstreams.

“What’s a twink?” asks MacKinnon, which basically settles it that MacKinnon is just a good dude and not in the small NHL club of which Jack heretofore thought he was one of two members.

Phillips answers him (which also answers a question for Jack), “Slim, trim, usually blond, kinda younger-looking even though he’s legal.”

“And Seggy is...almost a twink?”

Kenny laughs. “He’s more of a twunk, but close enough for Zimms, I bet, yeah,” he answers Nate. “The Babe might qualify too, except for that Daddy beard he’s rockin’.”

“It’s not Seguin,” Jack interrupts before they can go off on a tangent about Gabriel Landeskog’s “Daddy” beard. “It’s Alex DeBrincat.”

Kenny bursts out laughing and manages to say, “You do have a type, you fuckin’ beaut,” at the same time that MacKinnon asks, “Is he a twink?”

“Hah, _Twink_ sy,” Phillips snorts. Jack suddenly remembers that Jordan played with Alex on the Otters, which is maybe very uncomfortable considering what he now knows (despite lack of explicit confirmation) to be true.

Sidney remains quiet, though his mouth is curved up in a sly smile and he glances at Jack sideways, before he subtly sucks in a quick breath through his teeth, as the arm that’s behind Jack tenses. Jack tries not to look, but he can’t help himself, and he sees that Kenny’s hips are going a little faster now that he’s laughing so hard.

“Brinksy does have a great butt, it’s true,” Phillips then adds, “but you know what’s better? Nylander’s _thighs_.”

“Mmph,” Kenny makes the sound as he’s swallowing the mouthful of beer he’d just taken. “Yes, holy shit! Definitely top five hockey thighs.”

“But wait, nobody answered me,” MacKinnon says. “Is DeBrincat a twink?”

“A twunk,” Phillips replies. “Because he’s thick as fuck.”

Sidney’s hand suddenly raises and comes down hard behind Jack’s head, slapping the lip of the tub. Across the tub, Phillips smirks a little, but MacKinnon looks pretty oblivious, or possibly still trying to figure out the difference between twink and twunk. Kenny looks like the damn cat that got the canary, as he smiles innocently and says, “Thick of bod, not necessarily of dick.”

Nate looks confused, but then shakes his head and laughs. “You’re such an asshole, Parser.”

“Hell fucking yes I am,” Kenny replies, saluting MacKinnon with his beer bottle and then groaning when he accidentally smacks himself in the head with it. “Fuck me.”

“That an offer?” Jack says, and god he hopes it sounds like a joke.

“Gosh, Mister Zimmermann, you little flirt,” Kenny says, all sweet and syrupy and warm and--weird. That’s not at all how he talks, even when he’s being a little shit. Or, well, maybe that’s his deal now. It’s not like Jack would know.

It’s kind of a turn-off actually. Kenny is supposed to be an asshole. He’s supposed to be fun and prickly and acerbic and cheeky as all fuck, not cooing and sweet.

Maybe Sidney likes it though. Maybe Sidney is into that sort of thing, which, okay that’s fine. To each his own thing. Actually, maybe it’s like a _thing_ for them. Like maybe Kenny gets all sweet and shy and makes himself seem smaller or whatever it is he’s doing, and it lets Sidney be in charge. Sid can be a total fucking brat on the ice, bitching about penalties and getting away with shit that lesser players might not, but Jack can also definitely see him getting really into bossing Kenny around, especially if Kenny were doing that whole dumb act thing.

But the thing is, it’s much more fun to boss Kenny around when he’s pushing back. It’s much more fun to watch him melt when you do something sweet that he isn’t expecting.

Sid probably has no idea.

“Does that make _you_ a twink, Parser?” asks MacKinnon, laughing as he splashes Kenny again.

“How very fucking dare!” Kenny puffs up and bristles like a cat, and yeah, there he is. “I’m thick as a fucking brick, you infant! Sidney, control your son!”

Sid’s inhaling a shaky breath, though, and doesn’t seem able to do much more than flap a hand in MacKinnon’s general direction.

“Hah! Ya drunk, buddy?” Nate chirps, delighted.

Phillips just meets Jack’s gaze across the tub and smirks knowingly. Jack hopes the face he makes in return isn’t too weird.

Kenny harrumphs exaggeratedly and slides down off Sidney’s lap, but instead of picking the open space next to Sidney, he squirms and shoves his way in until he’s seated between Jack and Sid. Sid lets his arm fall down around Kenny’s neck, and Jack resists the very ridiculous urge to move it. “Just because a guy,” he says, as he settles into his new seat, “can barely grow a beard and has sick abs--”

“--and is blond and short--”

“--fuck you, bud,” Kenny admonishes Phillips, “but yes, doesn’t make him a twink.”

“By your own fucking definition, yes it does!” Nate says, laughing brightly again. “Accept it, Parser.”

“I refu--whoa, mmmm…” Kenny trails off on the hum and leans forward a little, tipping his chin down to his chest. He fumbles his beer bottle behind himself until it’s sitting on the ledge and then sinks both hands into the water to grip the bench.

“Are you, uh, Parser, you okay?”

“Think he found a jet,” Sidney then says and squeezes Kenny at the join of his neck and shoulder.

Kenny makes a noise that would have been unforgivably embarrassing if Jack had made it, especially in front of anyone other than the person he was currently fucking, and then looks up through his eyelashes and _smiles_ , like he doesn’t give a single shit about the fact that now he’s shamelessly getting himself off. “Were you sitting on this thing the whole fucking time, babe?” he asks, a little breathless.

Jack realizes he’s about to answer and abruptly shuts his mouth, as Sidney says, “Not on top of it, _babe_. It was hitting this sore spot I’ve got in my thigh.”

“Sore spot, my ass,” Nate says--and now he looks like he’s at least got what’s going on here because he’s definitely blushing more than he was from just the heat of the water. “Were you going for a ‘lower body injury’ excuse this year?”

Phillips laughs at that and says, “Yeah, I really am surprised that you didn’t back out on us again.”

“Parser kind of made a compelling argument about why I should be here this year,” Sid says with a shrug and then squeezes Kenny’s shoulder again. “He told me he was tired of losing to amateurs.”

The other guys laugh at the way Kenny whines slightly and raises a hand to ineffectually splash water up in Sidney’s face, but Jack can’t take his eyes off the way Kenny seems to be seconds from getting his cock out. And also the way that Sidney doesn’t even seem to care. For someone Jack knows is very, very private about literally everything that doesn’t take place out on that ice, it seems ridiculous and out of character and--and _unfair_ , maybe? Does Kenny not deserve the protection of Sid’s ridiculously private ways?

But then, it is Kenny, isn’t it? Kenny always did like fooling around in places where there was a bit of a risk in getting caught: the backseat of Jack’s car, the locker room, his bedroom with the door unlocked and Jack’s parents just down the hall, and once, very memorably, right there in the seats of the shitty old bus that was taking the team from Rimouski to Drummondville.

(Jack still suspects that Thierry Hannon knew Kenny was giving him a handy under that blanket, no matter what Kenny said later about T.H. being an oblivious twat.)

And Jack, hopped up on his anxiety meds as he often was, had been all too happy to go along with it, even though he was terrified that someone would find out his secret. It had been worth it, just to see Kenny shiver and shake and moan and cry out. Fuck, he was so pretty when he came.

Still. This is...Jack doesn’t know what this is, but it’s wild, and it’s unnerving, and it’s also hot as fucking hell, and he honestly can’t remember the last time he felt like this.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Jack mutters, before he can stop himself, just loud enough for Kenny to hear him.

Kenny snaps his gaze up to meet Jack’s eyes, and his mouth drops open, but he doesn’t say anything back.

“Maybe you should...maybe you should take off your shorts,” Jack continues, low and thready, a voice he barely recognizes as his own. “Probably feels even better on your bare skin, Kenny.”

Kenny’s lip curls up in a teasing half-smile, but his funny-colored eyes have gone a little glassy. He says, “Not in front of the children, Mr. Zimmermann,” even as he’s sliding his hands up and over his thighs to rest at the waistband of his swim trunks.

“Don’t call me that,” Jack admonishes, eyes narrowing a little. “Maybe that works on Crosby, but I think you know it’s not my thing.”

The tension snaps immediately, as Kenny laughs bright and mean and settles himself back against the wall of the tub away from the direct line of the jetstream. “Oh buddy, I think _you_ know that it most certainly is.”

Before Jack can respond that he’s seriously not into that cutesy Daddy thing or whatever the hell Kenny’s doing, Sidney’s hand slides up from behind Kenny’s head and tangles into his hair, gripping the damp strands in a way that can’t be anything other than possessive. “Seriously?” Sid says, but there’s amusement in his tone which hopefully means that he didn’t hear everything. “You’re done already?”

“You’re one to talk, Kid,” Kenny says, affecting a huge, bored yawn, like he isn’t clearly loving the way Sidney has him basically pinned to his seat with nothing other than his hand.

“You’re such a brat,” Sidney replies with so much naked affection in it that Jack actually feels uncomfortable again.

So maybe Kenny and Sid aren’t just fucking. Maybe it’s actually way more than that for them.

The thing is, Jack should be happy for them objectively speaking. Shared personal history aside, the fact that two professional hockey players can be in a relationship with one another and not have it splashed all over the internet for strangers to dissect and speculate and deliver their hot takes in 140 characters or less is pretty remarkable. Sure, they’re obviously not _out_ out, and they probably don’t get to see each other all that much during the season, but they can be together and it hasn’t affected their ability to do the thing that they all love so much. Hell, clearly there are people that even know about it -- everyone currently in this hot tub, and who knows who else -- and it doesn’t seem to be an issue.

All right, fine, so objectively speaking, yes, Jack is happy for them. Objectively, it’s nice that he’s not the only guy dating another guy.

Abruptly, Jack wishes Bittle were here to see this. Not in a salacious way or anything, but more in the sense that Bittle would love to have proof that it’s not a big deal. He’ll have to skip over the part where he kind of hit on Kenny when he tells Bittle about this later, but it had been a joke, so it won’t actually be like lying to his boyfriend. How it all went down isn’t even really the point, anyway. The point is that they’re not as alone as Jack thought they were, and Bittle will really appreciate knowing that fact.

“I’m extremely innocent and very well-behaved,” Kenny’s saying, with his eyes closed and smiling slightly.

“Yeah, Sid, Parser’s never done anything wrong in his life,” Phillips chirps--and the smug look on his face wouldn’t be out of place on a guy who netted a one-timer to end a goalie’s shut-out streak.

Kenny sighs and settles a little more in his seat. “I knew I liked you best, Jordy--mmph, hey!”

Sidney relaxes his fingers in Kenny’s hair, but it seems like only just from the way Kenny continues to squirm. “Innocent is not the word I’d use for you,” he says. “What do you think, Jack?”

It feels like a test; it feels like every single time his skin has crawled at the thought of being _seen_ , and while he’s learned many, many coping mechanisms for when his anxiety has made its unwelcome appearance in the years since he was a dumb teenager that folded under the weight of his dad’s legacy, his favorite mechanism--having Bittle come and sit in his lap--is unavailable to him at this exact moment. He can’t even call because he left his cell phone in his hotel room. Jack just has to answer jokingly. He can do that. He’s had practice with that.

“Kenny’s a paragon of virtue,” he deadpans.

Phillips and MacKinnon laugh, and Sidney does that silly giggle-honk thing, which only sets off the other guys more. But Kenny just turns his head to catch Jack’s eye and frowns a little. He doesn’t seem upset, but then Jack isn’t exactly well-versed in Kenny’s body language anymore. Kenny just seems like he’s considering Jack, and the skin-crawling feeling comes back with a vengeance because Jack’s pretty sure he’s going to come up wanting under Kenny’s scrutiny.

He’s not feeling fun-tipsy anymore either, which sucks because he had been feeling so good before--well, before Kenny decided to essentially fuck some other guy right in front of his face. And not just some other guy, even, it was fucking Sidney Crosby. Jack remembers a time back when they were billeting together when he caught Kenny jerking off to one of Sid’s fucking highlight reels on YouTube. Kenny always did get what he wanted in the end, didn’t he?

Screw Kenny, honestly. Screw Kenny for always fucking ruining Jack’s good time.

“Apparently none of you know him all that well,” Sidney says, still laughing and (probably purposely, the asshole) twisting the knife.

“I remember when his pesty ass drew Gabe into two fucking five minute majors in one game,” says MacKinnon, once again flicking water at Kenny.

“Did you say ‘pesty’ or ‘pasty’?”

“Either would work,” Jack interjects.

They all laugh at that, including Kenny, who also rises to his feet, quickly whips around and drops his trunks under the sweet curve of his ass, mooning them all. “Eat this pasty-white ass, Zimmermann!” he jokes. (It must be a joke. It has to be a joke.)

“Fuck me, I’m blind!” chirps Phillips, at the same time that MacKinnon laughingly says, “Don’t you live in the desert?”

Kenny’s response is to smack his ass and then wiggle it--it shouldn’t even remotely be hot, but it is, fucking goddammit. Jack can’t keep his eyes off it, even though he knows that Sidney’s probably watching him and getting pissed off. “Check this ass ‘cause I’m marvelous,” Kenny sings, in that stupid off-key way he has.

“That’s not the lyric, Gaga,” Phillips says. “And on that _painfully_ oh-so-wrong note, I’m-a go see if Showzy’s done being a pissy little bitch. Dogg, you with me? If I had to guess, he probably found his way back to Draisaitl and I think Landy was chillin’ with them too.”

“Yeah, I need like two to five more drinks to forget I ever saw what I saw here today,” Nate answers, as he starts to get up off the bench.

“Two to five? I’m that memorable!” Kenny crows. He starts swiveling his hips in a more deliberately sexy grind, and Jack forces himself to look away now. “See you guys out there tomorrow--ow, son of a bitch!” He rubs a hand over the spot where Nate had smacked his cheek.

“That was way firmer than I thought it was going to be,” MacKinnon says thoughtfully, then laughs when Kenny turns around and pouts at him. “Good one, buddy, truly. Zimmermann, you might wanna revise that list of yours.”

“Oh my god, Nate, let’s go before you’re converted!” Phillips cries out, but he’s laughing, like it’s funny. Like this is all some kind of hilarious joke. Like it’s no big deal. He hooks an arm around MacKinnon’s neck and drags him away. A few moments later, Jack hears the door click shut.

“And then there were three,” says Kenny, ominously, before he ruins it by laughing obnoxiously.

“And then there were three,” Sidney echoes, small and soft and...weird.

Jack knows he should get out of the tub. There's about ten reasons he can think of off the top of his head for why he should make some excuse and get out of the tub, not the least of which is that he's pretty sure that Sidney and Kenny want to fuck. Each other, clearly, not him. He's a third wheel now. But yes, they want to fuck in this hot tub and Jack is just in the way of that.

Because he knows that Kenny didn't come, and it's also entirely possible that Sid didn't actually come, or if he did, that he's going to be the one to get fucked (but if Jack knows Kenny, and he's pretty sure he does as far as this kind of thing goes, Kenny is dying to get a big, thick cock up his ass). Either way, they're both clearly riled up and ready to go, if the way they behaved right in front of Nate and Jordan was any indication.

“You still with us, Jack?” Kenny asks.

Jack swallows against a dry mouth and makes himself look Kenny in the eye. He's smirking again, smug and frustratingly hot. Jack can't exactly tell, though, if the question is meant to make him leave the tub or just point out the fact that he was starting to daydream.

It’s probably both. Jack should get up. He should just get up and leave the hot tub.

“So how long have you two…” Jack trails off purposely suggestively, as he leans back against the wall of the tub, getting more comfortable. He reaches for his glass and, when he finds it empty, makes a gesture toward the little bucket of beers that Kenny had brought with him.

Sidney turns to grab a beer for Jack and hands it across Kenny, and after Jack takes it, lets that hand come down around Kenny’s neck, fingers dangling and trailing lightly at Kenny’s collarbone. “How long have we…?” Sid says, trailing off exactly as Jack had. There’s something in his tone, something in his expression that Jack can’t figure out, and it’s really unsettling.

“Ask your question, Mr. Zimmermann,” Kenny says, all cute and cuddly again, leaning back into Sidney’s chest.

“Would you fucking stop that?” Jack snaps. “Stop fucking calling me that, Kenny, Christ! You don’t--you don’t call me that, you call me _Zimms_. _That’s_ what you call me.”

Immediately, Jack feels like he fucked up, and in a moment of clarity he sometimes gets before the panic sets in, he stands up, water dripping down his chest, and starts to cross over to the stairs to get out of the hot tub.

“You don't want to stay, buddy?”

Jack freezes, free hand on the railing, but doesn't turn around.

“Stay,” Sidney repeats, not a question this time. “He can call you whatever you want him to call you.”

“So that's how it is?” Jack hears himself ask, in a low, ragged voice. He still doesn't turn. The beer in his hand feels like it could fall from his fingers any moment.

“That's how it is,” Sidney replies.

“That's how it _could be_ ,” Kenny adds, sounding a little more like his normal bratty self.

Jack takes a breath, uncurls his fingers from their death grip on the railing, and turns around finally. Kenny is back on Sidney's lap, and this time there's no mistaking what's happening. There's no “no homo” plausible deniability about the way that one of Sidney's hands is wrapped around Kenny's cock in his shorts, stroking him slowly. Jack can't see it yet, but he knows that motion. He remembers the way it feels to work Kenny like that until he's squirming in your lap and begging to be fucked.

“I'm--” Jack starts and has to stop right away at the sound Kenny makes. Sid must have twisted his wrist just right. “I have...I mean, I-- I can't--”

“We know you've got a boyfriend, Zimmermann,” Sid says. “Pretty sure that only means you can't touch.”

“No harm in, ah, ah!” Kenny hisses and drops back against Sidney's chest.

“No harm in looking,” Sid finishes for him, smiling in a way that looks more like he's baring his teeth.

Bittle would hate this.

Jack doesn't know why he thought before that it would be nice for Bittle to be here to see this. Because whether or not Kenny and Sidney are dating or just fucking each other or what, this isn't something that Bittle would want to see. It's too forward, too aggressive in a way Bittle would find distasteful. 

His boyfriend is still pretty reserved, and while Jack can occasionally coax him into whining or moaning the way that Jack particularly likes to hear, it takes a lot to get Bittle to come out of his shell in the bedroom. Jack likes that about him, he thinks. When Bittle comes, it feels like Jack has earned something.

Kenny was always so eager--clearly still is. He's so free with his need, his desire, his _sounds_. His breath is starting to hitch in his throat, making him sound like he's chasing release, and his face is open and unguarded, and Bittle would seriously, absolutely hate seeing this.

“Twist his nipple with your other hand,” Jack says, so quietly he's not even sure it was out loud at first. “He likes it hard.”

“I know,” Sidney replies, and then he's smiling that slightly-pained smile of his that Jack recognizes from so many caught-off-guard hugs. “Cute that you think I need your help.” He still does it though, gets his fingers onto Kenny's nipple and pinches it tightly enough that Kenny cries out.

“I think,” Jack starts, feeling bold suddenly for reasons he doesn't care to examine closely at the moment (probably the alcohol), “you want me to stay because you _do_ need the help.”

Sidney opens his mouth to say something, but he's interrupted by a particularly thin, reedy moan from Kenny. “You're so good, Parser,” he then says, redirecting his attention easily.

Jack remembers that too, how captivating Kenny could be when he was falling apart. He remembers a time when he would have done literally anything to hear Kenny cry out his name.

Bittle is usually so good at that though. When Jack earns it enough, he gets to hear Bittle whimper his name in that broken sort of way, like it's two syllables instead of one. Kenny used to do it too, but it was loud, desperate. Begging. _Fuck._

“Si--id!” Kenny begs, almost as if he'd read Jack's mind. “Please, _please_ close again, so close.”

“Better back off,” Jack warns. “If he comes now, you won't be able to fuck him.” He's standing closer to them now, he realizes, not sure when he actually moved, but he can clearly see Sidney's hand working Kenny over under the water. Kenny still has his trunks on though, and Jack wishes...wants to see.

Sid snaps his fingers over Kenny's nipple, making him cry out sharply again until it fades into a sweet little whine. “Not true, Zimmermann,” he then says, even as he's clearly slowing the movement of his hand in Kenny's pants. “Or not true anymore, maybe.”

It shouldn't sting, but it really fucking does, and Jack thinks very, very briefly that he should get out of the hot tub and go call Bittle, but instead, he takes a seat across the tub from the pair of them, puts his beer on the ledge behind him, and then slowly and deliberately pulls his cock out of his shorts. “You want to tell me some more about how things have changed, Kenny?” he asks, fisting his hand around himself and stroking firmly. “Or maybe you want to tell your boyfriend about how much you used to love it when I fucked you until you could barely see straight.”

Kenny turns his head and moans into Sidney's neck, but Sidney laughs like the deliberate taunt didn't bother him at all. “Oh buddy,” he says, as his fingers snap over Kenny's nipple again and then back off to what looks like a light trace around the tight and swollen bud, “you think that's supposed to hurt?”

Jack slides his free hand up his chest and mimics the movement of Sidney's fingers on Kenny's. Kenny was always the one who liked a little pain, but Jack likes to be teased. Kenny was always so good at that too. “Just stating a fact,” Jack answers, hoping his tone doesn't betray his anger too much.

He has no right to be angry or jealous, he knows. He's had Kenny, and he has Bittle now, and he loves Bittle and maybe he loved Kenny once, but seeing Sidney put his hands all over what used to be Jack's, Jack feels that same old familiar curl of envy in his gut. It's always the same, actually: the desire for that next thing he can't have, whether it's the Memorial Cup or the looming shadow of his dad's legacy or a spot in the NHL or a Stanley Cup or whatever fucking else that someone else has and Jack _wants_.

Jack continues to slowly fist his cock and tweak his nipple and stare hungrily at the way Sidney gets to have what should be Jack's, right there in Sidney's lap. “Another fact,” Jack adds, low and fierce, “is that I had him first.”

“But did you though?” Sidney replies immediately.

Jack feels it like a slapshot to the mouth.

Logically, Jack knows that Sidney and Kenny were never together before he and Kenny had been whatever exactly they had been during Juniors. Sidney was entirely too busy being a fucking superstar and winning a Stanley Cup in 2009 to come and hang out with a bunch of wannabes, and there was an even more ridiculously slim chance that he would have fucked with his brand new captaincy by getting into a relationship with a guy and especially a guy on his old team which was (and probably still is, the shitheads) full of gossips. So logically, Jack knows that Sidney just said it to fuck with him--but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still feel like it _could_ be true.

He can imagine it, actually. He can see it clearly, playing out in high-definition in his mind’s eye, as he watches the two of them together right now--Kenny as Jack remembers him most, ganglier than he is now and desperate to prove that he belonged, flirting shamelessly with his idol until that idol gave it right back.

Kenny had somehow managed to keep to himself any hint of being starstruck by Jack’s dad (possibly because he could see how much it bothered Jack when the other guys acted like Jack was just a gateway to getting to his dad), but he made no absolutely no secret of having a hockey boner for Sid. And sometimes, in the quiet of their shared bedroom after they came to trust each other enough to share their secret, Kenny would tell Jack about how hot he thought Sid was and all the things he wanted to do to him, even though he knew it could never happen.

Kenny would have done whatever he could to get Sidney to _see_ him, had Sidney come around to Rimouski while they were there. In Juniors, things were so much more ambiguous--more touching, more hugging, more lap-sitting, less scrutiny. Hell, Kenny could have dropped to his knees and nuzzled up to Sid in the middle of the dressing room and there’d still be a handful of guys who thought it was just a joke, so desperate not to see anything gay in it that they were literally blind to it.

“Yes,” Jack then says, as he stills his hand on himself, “I did.”

Because he knows he was Kenny’s first, just as Kenny was his.

He remembers being sixteen and terrified that someone would find out he was a fraud until Kenny shoved his way into Jack’s lap at some stupid party at Tenser’s house and made him laugh until he cried. He remembers pushing Kenny’s stupid cowlick back from his forehead one night after a terrible, shitty loss, just because he thought it might make Kenny laugh, and it worked because Kenny lit up like he’d just won the Cup instead of being eliminated from the playoffs and leaned in and said, “Zimms, can I…?”, just a ghost of a thing against Jack’s lips, and Jack had been too caught up in the way he smiled to say anything other than yes. He remembers fumbling hands and panting breaths and a too-eager look in Kenny’s eyes as he begged Jack to touch him, really touch him, just like--just like that, _god_.

The first time Jack fucked Kenny was the beginning of the end of them, he knows now.

(In his lowest moments, when the pressure of being the only one who’s really out hits him the hardest, Jack wonders if the first time he fucked Bittle was the beginning of the end of them too.)

“Maybe, but I have him last,” Sidney then says, as he snaps his fingers over Kenny's nipple a third time. “And that's all that matters.”

And that...feels significant.

“You do have me, babe,” Kenny replies easily, like it's nothing at all, whines it into Sidney's neck. He's rolling his hips in earnest now, bucking up into the stroke of Sidney's hand on him.

Jack swallows against the weird ache that has found its way up from his chest into his throat, as the massive sense of unfairness washes over him. It is deeply, ridiculously unfair that Sidney gets to have everything he ever wanted without all the fucking work that Jack put in to get there too. Jack failed and pushed and sacrificed and took a massive risk and finally, finally got to the place he and Kenny used to talk about in the earliest hours of the morning when neither of them could sleep.

And as for Kenny? Well, he seems happier now than he was the last time Jack talked to him, but he doesn’t seem happier than he was when they were kids.

“Get his cock out, Crosby,” Jack orders then, as he stands back up. He walks back across the hot tub until he’s standing directly in front of them. “Get it out, I want to see what you do to him.”

Because Jack was better then, and he’s better now, and even if Sidney has everything that Jack ever wanted, Jack has it fucking too.

Kenny’s eyes snap open and he turns to stare up at Jack. They’re glassy and a little wet, and fuck, Jack remembers that look so well. “Ja--Zimms?” he asks, remembering what name Jack had asked for before.

Jack fists himself again and drags it along the length of himself once, tight and slow, then holds himself at just the tip. “Do it, Sid, or I’m out of here, and whatever game you’re trying to play is over.”

“Please,” Kenny whispers. He leans back against Sidney’s chest again and raises his hips, like Sid will just help him shimmy out of his shorts just because Jack asked him to.

Sidney just looks up at Jack, a considering look on his face. His hand hasn’t stopped in Kenny’s shorts, but he doesn’t move the other away from Kenny’s nipple. Jack is tired, suddenly, so tired of people looking at him and judging him and acting like he isn’t worthy. Acting like they know who he is and what he’s going to do. Fuck them. Fuck all of them, and fuck Sidney in particular.

“Please, _please_ ,” Kenny whines again. He’s thrusting his hips up now, trying to make Sidney touch him exactly the way he wants to be touched. “Fuck, god, _god_ , I’m gonna come.”

“Don’t,” Sidney says quietly, and Kenny squirms against him. “You better not.”

Jack steps forward a little more, until he’s bracketing the pair of them with his legs on either side of Sidney’s. “I’m not going to touch you, but I know that’s what you want, isn’t it, Kenny?”

Kenny inhales a shaky breath and nods, then hisses sharply with the pain of Sidney’s aggressive pinch of his already abused nipple. “Fuck, fuuuuuck,” he cries.

“Does that piss you off, buddy?” Jack asks Sidney. “Knowing that he wants me still? Knowing--” he turns his attention back to Kenny, “--that you’re not going to have me ever again?”

Sidney laughs at that, surprised and, if Jack’s reading him right, delighted. “You think _that’s_ what’s happening here?” He slides his hand across Kenny’s chest and starts gently circling his other nipple, making it tighten into a perfectly lickable pink bud. “You think you’re not completely interchangeable?”

“There’s nobody like me,” Jack spits.

“There’s a thousand guys like you!” Sidney exclaims, and it could be a chirp, except that his face is deadly serious. “And a thousand more right behind them, just waiting for their shot! You’re not special, Zimmermann.”

And it should hurt. It should hurt as much as the idea that Kenny’s not his anymore hurts, but for reasons Jack can’t figure out at the moment, all it makes him feel is powerful. His dick is hard and practically throbbing in his hand, his arousal is at a fever-pitch, and he’s looking down at someone he admired and someone he loved, and all he can think is that he has the power to take them both apart, right here and now. And so yeah, that _does_ make him special.

Jack reaches out with the hand he’s not working himself with and slides it into Kenny’s hair, drawing a desperate whimper from Kenny and effectively shutting Sidney up. “I think you know,” Jack growls, “that there is nobody--like--me.” He punctuates the last of it with not-so-gentle tugs of Kenny’s hair, turning his face up and forcing him to look Jack in the eyes. “Nobody can fuck you like I did, Kenny. Isn’t that right?”

“Thought--ah, ah, ah!” Kenny bucks his hips into Sidney’s strokes and arches his back into Jack’s grip. “Fuck, _fuck_ , fuck, please, please I want to--let me come, please!”

“Say it, Kenny,” Jack demands, as he leans closer still and starts stroking himself close to Kenny’s face. “Tell your boyfriend who fucked you best.”

Sidney tips his head so that he’s pressed against Kenny’s temple, his lips close to Kenny’s ear. He says something too low for Jack to make it out, but it causes Kenny to shiver, despite the heat of the water and the tension of the moment. Then, Sidney turns his face back to meet Jack’s eyes, and he says, “Tell him, _Kenny_.”

And that’s, _Crisse_ \--fuck--

It’s stupid to be mad at that, Jack knows that deep down somewhere. It’s stupid to be mad about something that should not fucking matter. There’s probably hundreds of people that call Kenny that. But that look on Sidney’s face, like he knows, like he _knows_ , and the way he says it just-- it just fucking--

Jack starts working himself fast and filthy, exactly the way he likes it when he’s just trying to come. “You know it was me,” Jack says, scratching his blunt nails over Kenny’s scalp. “You know who was the best you ever had, and you need to say it, or I’m not going to let you come.”

“You know he doesn’t have that power, Kenny,” Sidney says into Kenny’s ear again, but loud enough this time for Jack to hear him clearly.

“Say it, Kenny. Say it,” Jack orders again, gripping Kenny’s hair tightly again and tugging him closer. His knuckles brush ever so lightly against Kenny’s cheek each time he strokes himself. He’s going to come, and it’s going to feel fucking amazing, fuck.

“I--oh god, I-- it’s-- fuck, _fuck_ ,” Kenny babbles. He sounds wrecked, and Jack knows he’s just dying to come. “Sid, I-- Zimms, please-- let me, let me.”

“It’s me, Kenny!” Jack cries out. He fixes his gaze on Sidney, waits until Sidney’s looking back at him, and then he lets go, starts coming in hot spurts all over Kenny’s face.

Kenny’s mouth drops open, like it’s an instinct, and he catches some of Jack’s come in his mouth. Jack never lets go of his hair, just tightens his grip and milks the last of it directly into Kenny’s mouth. He watches, Kenny’s eyes wide and wet and so fucking pretty, as Kenny deliberately swallows it down and then opens his mouth again to show that he took it all.

Jack inhales and exhales deeply, steadying himself in the come-down. Sid’s hand has stilled in Kenny’s shorts, but the other is still playing almost idly with Kenny’s nipple. Jack lets himself have one more moment, and then he reaches out and tips Kenny’s chin up, gripping him tightly, but speaking directly to Sid. “Now he can finish,” he says.

With that, he tucks himself back into his trunks, climbs out of the hot tub and starts out of the private pool area. All he has to do is get back to his hotel room. He can do whatever he wants when he gets there, but he just has to get to the room first. He can do that. He can get there.


End file.
